My typically Bengali girlfriend, brings to the table, decades of organic and traditional formulae – passed on to her by her mother, and to her mother by her grandmother and so on – like intergenerational letters, written in ink on parchment – replete with the emotions of decades – that have become a part of our sacred heirloom.
One such recipe that she commonly uses (and to a surprisingly effective degree) is her method to nurture and grow her luscious volumes of hair. The concoction is a rather repulsive one, comprising of, not the least worrying of all – raw eggs and finely grated onions.
Given her general horror of having watched me lose my hair over the last five years that she has been in love with me, I am occasionally the target of such experiments, if I may. (With great difficulty I have managed to traverse the five stages of grief and I have accepted my fate.)
One such exchange transpired last night, when in a magnanimous display of affection, she giggled, in her usual loving voice, “When you stay with me, I am going to be trying all this on you.”
Low on hope, disdainful of these sacred recipes, and exceptionally gifted at dismantling a nascent romantic setting, I replied, “Why don’t you throw a dash of finely chopped chilli and some garlic and hold my head over the frying pan, and you may just get a wonderful omelette?”
Needless to say, I heard a loud click at the other end, and settled remorsefully into my freshly dug grave.